


Always Gold

by acquaintedwithvice



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Rewrite, Drama, Episode Related, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pining, Romance, Vignette, Wordcount: 100
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-07-14 01:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 104
Words: 13,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16029854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acquaintedwithvice/pseuds/acquaintedwithvice
Summary: A series of vignettes, viewing each encounter through the lens of what might have been.Playlist: https://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/always-gold





	1. Welcome to the Hellmouth

"You're like a textbook with arms." A textbook, dry and dusty and uninteresting. But is he? His presence behind her warms her skin distractingly, scent of tea and cologne - and, yes, books - dulling the din of music and press of young bodies. She breathes out-

And he breathes in, a wisp of gold brushing his jaw. She is so small he has to bend to murmur in her ear, low and carrying.

_Prepare me._

He tries, here in this breeding ground of teenage hormones and bad decisions. She brushes off his advice like a homework assignment, and saves the day without him.


	2. The Harvest

“Do I have to tell you to be careful?” And the way he says it sounds as if he is scolding her, already tutting disapprovingly over the bruises like ghosts on her skin, the scars she has yet to earn. Trained all his life for this and yet he remains unprepared for the long nights, the watery sunrise met with bleary sleepless eyes. She goes where he cannot, walking with shadows underfoot and a wooden stake behind her back. She is green as a willow switch and just as sharp; the epitome of confidence and blessed youth, wasted on the young. He says nothing, and lets her enjoy it while she can. Slayers seldom grow old.


	3. Witch

After all of it, it's a witch's spell that fells her. The irony is not lost on him, black magic and its far-reaching consequences finding him even here. He tries to shield her from harsh reality, the first of many attempts. But already she knows him too well – he is transparent as glass; eyes green like loss, and the sea.

"Truth. Please." And he feels her slipping away, feels how fragile she is in his arms as he helps her to stand, lifts her up. He wonders if she has always been so delicate, so small; or if it only happens while he is watching.


	4. Teacher's Pet

He wakes with the sound of ripping paper as the page his face is pasted to tears a few centimeters from the book which has lately been his pillow. The lamp in his office is lit, disguising the time — he has spent the night in the school, again. His tea long since gone cold and stagnant, he staggers to the kettle and, thusly fortified, strolls out onto the lawn. It takes its time, but the day unfolds before him like a flower; golden sunlight a beautiful effulgence against rolling clouds. She shows up in a man’s jacket, dark supple leather enveloping her, swallowing her up; and his mood darkens like a thundercloud tending towards rain.


	5. Never Kill A Boy On The First Date

The division of responsibility is one that comes naturally, without much discussion – he reads, and she slays. And so he is surprised when she’s done her research, when she hefts a leather-bound volume in her slim hands willingly and quotes a passage aloud. He is for a moment surprised by her sparkling wit, until he notes her eagerness to escape that evening’s patrol – for a _boy_ , of course – and shuts her down with extreme prejudice, hating himself for how satisfying it is. When they conclude the evening, sitting bored in a stygian but wholly empty graveyard, he is sheepish and sulky; wondering if he is as obvious as he feels.


	6. The Pack

They have evolved into a pattern of pull and release, and he can tell something’s on her mind by how painful it becomes to train her. The bruises she leaves unmentioned on his body – ribs, arms, back – are a journal of sorts; record-keeping of her bad days, her secret fears and struggles. She’s concerned, as ever, for the welfare of her friends, and harangues him relentlessly for his lack of faith – he informs her calmly that all boys are beasts, but that they will “grow out of it.” The pale eyes that follow her from the library are his own scarlet letter, branding him a liar.


	7. Angel

The leather jacket is followed by a name, equally unfamiliar yet somehow ill-omened. _Angel_. Her youthful infatuation, written all over her face, is more than he knows what to do with. He could (should) command (advise) her – to keep her distance, avoid the unknown, focus on her sacred calling. Abuse his authority, attempt to break her spirit for the sake of the mission… He could. It might even work, for a while; though rebellion is in her nature she is inherently good and noble and he knows he could appeal to that. He finds he cannot muster the strength to try.


	8. I, Robot... You, Jane

The new computer science teacher is young and strikingly pretty, drawing the eye like the rich mystery of a dark forest. Though she is by all accounts a likable teacher; the Slayer does not much care for the way the woman dismisses her offhand – cool and detached, leveling a smoky stare at her Watcher that’s heavy with intent, with an adult interest. He stares back, as if startled to be noticed, the unseen returning to life beneath layers of tweed. Buffy presses her lips together, displeased; and says nothing – but in the back of her mind she decides she does not trust Jenny Calendar.


	9. The Puppet Show

He is the smartest person she knows and of course, he is in danger again. She flies through familiar halls, soles of her shoes pounding linoleum on concrete with a dull echo against the steel of the lockers. Her pulse hammering in her throat, heart laboring faithfully to push lifeblood through her veins; voice in her head berating herself grimly for not being fast enough, not clever enough. The ones she loves, forever in peril, their losses charged to her account. _You cannot escape your destiny,_ she’d teased him laughingly, oblivious to the coming storm. As she thrashes the newly revealed demon, trusting care of her Watcher to her companions, she resolves to never again be caught out by the rain.


	10. Nightmares

Night in the cemetery, the hooting of a lone owl insistent and haunting. While daylight breaks gleaming and sharp beyond the fence, in this place darkness still reigns. His terror has brought them here, his unspoken twisting fear.

“Whose nightmare is this?”

“It’s mine.”

 The innocent and lost, numberless as stars, needed her so much more than he did. How to bear it, this drive to protect her, to hold her back from the bitterness of battle, to keep her safe? _Impossible._ He wakes each grey dawn, sour taste of stale whiskey and anxiety on his tongue, waiting. _Is today the day?_ But she comes back changed from beneath the earth – her worst nightmare dovetailed neatly with his own – and he finds he loves her all the same.


	11. Out of Mind, Out of Sight

“A vampire in love with a Slayer… It’s rather poetic, in a maudlin sort of way.” 

And it is, yet he can’t quite suppress the hot flush of protective ire. An irrational response, and one he looks away from, turning his attention towards the ever-present distraction of old books. Gifts and sincerity soften his inner irritation despite all his best intentions, the promised codex a helpful lure. Of course Angel loves her – who would not? It occurs to him, tiny hairs on the back of his neck rising as if sensing danger, that the vampire is jealous. After all, he has seen her in the sunlight.


	12. Prophecy Girl

He closes his eyes, holding his breath for one beat, two. The words on the page before him, translated with painstaking care, are burned onto the darkness behind his eyelids. He is losing her, already; and he is bargaining, scrambling for another solution. Perhaps if he refuses to accept it, rejects this reality, the prophecy will not come to pass. She is a beam of natural sunlight in his dusty library and empty life, stronger and more clever and more purely _good_ than he ever could have hoped for. 

“Giles, I’m sixteen years old. I don’t want to die.” 

He decides, seeing his own pale and desperate countenance reflected in her tearful gaze, that he will do whatever is necessary to take her place at the Master’s table.


	13. When She Was Bad

Students mill around him, a living body returning to its natural habitat as a new school year begins. He chats with Jenny Calendar, the winter beauty’s interest in him having survived the long, hot months of summer. But as the Slayer and her companions descend the staircase, his gaze slides to her, drawn to the magnetic pole that she represents, his true north. He smiles gently, pale eyes warm and searching. “And how are you?”

His answer comes later, when she pushes herself – and his training equipment – beyond the pale. Her eyes are manic, her motions at rest short and jerky, a badly wired puppet. She lives, but the Master has drained the life from her regardless, leaving behind only that which was of no use to him – all her resentment, her sorrow, her fear. He cannot fix it, can only wait for the inevitable break, and when it comes, he is there to help her pick up the pieces, as always.


	14. Some Assembly Required

His reciprocation of Jenny’s interest comes on like the gentle cascading of summer into autumn, gradual and mild. It has been many years since he’s last wooed a woman, and he feels some practice is in order.

Buffy rather disagrees. Her laughing smile mocks him a little as she critiques his methods and advises him on modern dating etiquette. He frowns and retreats into the stacks, suddenly feeling very old and awkward, out of his depth entirely. His back to her, Buffy eyes the empty chair thoughtfully, annoyance or something like it coiling behind her ribs. Her expression shows only sunshine, but when he grows grumpy and terse she’s a little pleased to have gotten under his skin.


	15. School Hard

He has been observing her closely, aware of how exhausted she is beneath the pressure of her mother, the diminutive principal and Sunnydale’s robust vampire populace breathing down her neck. The school is overrun, its visitors – students and parents, and a handful of exceptionally unlucky faculty – barricaded in classrooms and closets. When she crashes through the ceiling of the library, he thinks he has never been so grateful to see anyone in his life. She arms herself, talking all the while – no scatterbrained teenager here, this is a seasoned tactician and a warrior, preparing for battle. Balanced against her cool acceptance of danger is her faith in him to protect her loved ones, should she fail. Her trust is touching and he gives his word without thought or hesitation; but his fear for her nearly trumps it. When she leaves the relative safety of the library, he must fight to resist lunging out after her.


	16. Inca Mummy Girl

He grows weary of playing the stern handler, the figure of grim authority against which she, in her willful youth, must constantly struggle. There is always a date, a dance, a teenage social obligation which he must firmly reject and watch her expression crumple, crestfallen and resigned. Lately, it grows harder each time.

“So can I go?”

 “I think not.”

 A savage blow rattles his bones, his teeth clacking together as he automatically tenses in expectation of another. He should know better than to deny her anything whilst sparring, for the ferocity of her assault intensifies in accordance with her irritation and he finds himself once again at her mercy – this small thing, a painted girleen half his size, who pins him without effort and demands he yield.


	17. Reptile Boy

They are at odds once again, his denial of permission for a party aggravating her sensibilities – not because she possesses any deep interest in attending, but because he continually stands in the way of these youthful activities, something she considers an unjust departure from typical adolescent rites of passage, in which she naturally wishes to partake. He derives no joy from his refusal, hates being so hard on her – but the sulking pout, soft green eyes upturned winsomely, makes it almost worth it.   


She lies, words bitter on her lips as she gains his sympathy and blind blessing. The college party she’d looked forward to turns out to be an epic failure; more slaying wrapped up in a different package, the gift she’d never asked for. He could scold her but doesn’t, instead apologizing for his own failures, grace in the face of the petty dishonesty she’s now ashamed of. She allows him to lead her from the dungeon, their reconciliation complete - his touch on her elbow, light but sure, is the truest thing she’s felt in a great while.

 


	18. Halloween

A bachelor, he is exempted from the traditional Halloween revelry as it is celebrated in the American suburbs; and has been looking forward to spending the evening alone with a stack of texts to cross-reference and a hot toddy to ward off the chill. But the nipping winds of late autumn are nothing compared to the ice that trickles up his spine at the mention of his old friend’s name. _Ethan Rayne._ A rank amateur – as they all had been, once – but a veritable demon in his own right, and the absolute last skeleton he wants tumbling out of his closet and into his Slayer. 

The shop is shuttered and dark when he enters, and while he is not surprised to see his companion he goes very still and cold upon meeting the man himself, a tribute to stoicism graven from stone. Ethan calls forth Ripper and he answers, bloodying the meddlesome magician with a savage satisfaction that has little to do with justice.


	19. Lie To Me

Everyone knows her, but no one sees her. To her friends, she exists behind a sort of transparent veil; her strength and power elevating her to an illusory stature she finds difficult to maintain and impossible to live up to. To her enemies, she is a common ground, a shared objective binding foe to foe in the relentless pursuit of her destruction. To those in between – old flames, new acquaintances, strangers and victims – she is an obstacle, or a means to an end. Trust is meaningless with the target painted on her back. She stands with Giles at the grave of another boy she could not save, and is only a little surprised when that boy, a relic from her innocent childhood, rises from the dirt and tries to kill her. She reacts on instinct, returning him to dust, and fights the similar instinct to slip her hand into her Watcher’s, fingers stiff and cold with loss and loneliness. 

“Lie to me.”

He does.


	20. The Dark Age

She enters his apartment unbidden, and he lacks the wit or coordination to refuse her. He is not invulnerable; fear is an old friend. Looking at him, unshaven and reeking of alcohol, she realizes she has seen him afraid, but never like this. Never white-knuckle terrified; eyes sunken and haunted in his gaunt face, pursued by a monster of his own creation. The realization that he is less than perfect, that at one point he was anything other than the staid, reliable school librarian she has come to know, is a slap in the face to her youthful naivete. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” 

Her disapproval shames him to his core, and he cannot bear to look at her as she leaves; armed to the teeth and off to clean up his mess. It is unrealistic, a house of cards that has always been doomed to fall, but he’d hoped to keep that part of himself – his truest self, an ugly inner demon whispers – hidden from her. To be a man she deserves to have watching her back.


	21. What's My Line (I)

Career Day brings strangers to the school, and so it is an excellent time to move his more questionable tomes out of the reach of curious eyes. The library is empty, as usual; so there is no one to witness his embarrassing hubris and resulting clumsiness as he attempts to build and then balance a stack of volumes taller than himself. Disaster is imminent, or so it seems – he can already picture in his mind’s eye the sliding cascade of books as they topple to the floor, some of them crumpling and splitting at the spines, priceless repositories of knowledge damaged needlessly as a consequence of his own haste and carelessness. He doesn’t hear her enter the library, she is too small to notice behind the swaying tower; but her hand over his is sudden and reassuring, saving the books and his own pride. It will occur to him later, over a cup of milk tea and some concerning research, that the scene had been a metaphor for life – himself, clumsy and ineffectual without her, and his Slayer, unbidden, ever ready with a rescue.


	22. What's My Line (II)

“With Buffy, some flexibility is required.” 

The explanation, brief but heavy with all that seems left unsaid, fills the blonde Slayer with a palpable irritation. Teetering as she is on the cusp of burnout, the abrupt appearance of another Chosen One fills her with uncertainty and a sudden and unexpected attachment to her calling. Kendra is by all appearances a model vampire slayer; organized, dedicated and highly trained. Giles, a man not given to empty compliments and difficult to impress, seems quite taken with her. His own Slayer is less charmed, her delicate cheekbones pink and stomach roiling with jealousy.


	23. Ted

The police are in his library once again. Their presence there offends him on a deep personal level, and he must carefully rein in the desire to defend his Slayer and her innocence with more passion than is appropriate in a school faculty member. He eyes the detective acidly, his answers to questions concerning Buffy’s high school transgressions, her grade point average and dating history, deliberately vague and devoid of emotion. At the edge of his vision, she passes through the hall, her silhouette in the round window a cameo of sorrow and confusion. The police can wait. Her soft green eyes, searching his desperately for an absolution he cannot give, are more compelling – more _important_.


	24. Bad Eggs

He won’t realize it until he recalls the memory later, highball of scotch replacing the tea that is his usual nightcap. His head throbbing, an insistent echo of the hellish day he’s had; the recollection comes floating back to him through the by-now familiar post-possession haze. He blinks and sees it all over again as if watching it on film – Joyce Summers in his library, willfully oblivious as ever to her daughter’s private struggles and striving. She refers to the Slayer, with a fond exasperation that says more about her than her offspring, as _irresponsible_ – and thinking back on it, in light of all Buffy bears alone, it strikes him as the greatest unkindness he’s ever heard a woman say about her child.


	25. Surprise

Buffy’s lack of punctuality, once a thorn in his side, has become one of the things he cherishes about her. She is a creature of instinct and passion, and while she struggles to balance the two disparate halves of her life, her intuition generally guides her well and so he is prone to forgive her tardiness – even when the newly-minted seventeen-year-old is late for her own birthday party. _Fashionably_ late, as it turns out, for she arrives in classic Slayer style, crashing through the large, painted-over window above the bandstand. Breathless and brilliant, she looks around the Bronze and smiles at her assembled friends and comrades, charmed by their efforts. They have greetings to exchange, tactics to discuss, and it’s only when Jenny appears carrying an ominously misshapen box that he realizes with a guilty start that he’s forgotten about her entirely.


	26. Innocence

She brushes past him as if he were a shadow, pinning Jenny to the desk with one arm, effortless and deadly. He is in the dark for all of a moment; but hidden things crave exposure and soon confessions come tumbling out. Her sad eyes say it all, throwing cold water on the upswell of outrage like a flashpoint behind his ribs. _True happiness._ Of course – the vampire must have experienced something akin to rapture, Buffy all gilded loveliness and yielding adoration in his arms. He presses his lips together and says nothing, his regret profound – she’d been a maiden, he is sure, and deserves something more than this haunting remorse. As they regroup in the library, a gypsy rose twines along the lintel of his office door, offering help in their hour of need. 

Buffy’s response is unequivocal. “Get out.” 

What she needs from him is not pity, but strength. He squares his shoulders and turns his back on the Calendar woman and her damning dishonesty, solidarity in every inch of him. 

“She said get out.”


	27. Phases

Perhaps it is the moon. He feels a little drunk on it, hot-blooded and savage as he lunges at the would-be wolf hunter; the Slayer’s firm grip on him an effective leash – but just barely.

_What a man and a girl get up to on Lover’s Lane at night..._

The insinuation sinks into his skin like a silver bullet, burning and sharp; and he _hates_ that his fury tastes so much like shame. Hypocrisy chokes him and he directs it outward, pinning it on the rifle-wielding stranger as if it were his to bear – _luxuria,_ a deadly sin.

They encounter him again later, the night and Giles’ nerves wearing thin. _Daddy’s doing a great job –_ and there it is again, like a splinter lodged where he cannot reach; his anger and distaste for the stranger edged with a shadow of guilt. She must never know – it will be a secret, kept between himself and the moon.


	28. Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

In hindsight, it’s not surprising that Xander was the first of his young charges to dabble in the dark side of the arcane. The boy is unskilled, as psychic as a brick wall, but boiling with adolescent frustrations and all the directionless angst required to power a bit of black magic. Giles is shamed by his own reaction, hypocrite that he is – disgusted and furious, he scolds the lad and banishes him from the library, unable even to look at him. Buffy’s safety, as ever, remains paramount on his list of priorities and he cannot think clearly.   
  
“If anything’s happened to her, I’ll-” _Kill you,_ he’d nearly said, as if such a threat were a rational or intelligent thing to say to a teenage boy confessing the biggest mistake of his life. A boy that looks up to him, for all his own flaws and weaknesses – and reminds him, in this moment, far too much of himself.


	29. Passion

He loves Jenny as he will learn to mourn her – more as an ideal than as a flesh-and-blood woman, burdened with deep flaws and costly mistakes. When it happens, it seems as if it has been inevitable all along. Shellshocked, he does what he feels he must; unpacking his sharpest blades and most fondly treasured instruments of death. He tries, knowing he is doomed to failure; tries to avenge her himself, grey-faced and determined. And when the building starts to crumble around him, flames and black smoke towering into the night sky; his Slayer is there, dragging him choking and limp out into the relative safety of an alley. He struggles to rise, opens his mouth to rage at her, to demand by what right she dares interfere –

And she hits him so hard his ears ring and spots cloud his vision. She is sobbing, tears streaking her face, and she crumples, clinging to him as if she’s drowning on the hard concrete.

“You _can’t_ leave me! I can’t do this alone.”

His arms come up to embrace her, stiff fingers curling into fists as he holds on tight – he is drowning, too.


	30. Killed By Death

Willow calls in the middle of the night, rousing him from restless dreams. His Slayer is in the emergency room, felled by a virulent influenza bug that had swept through the school the week before. Never one to ignore opportunity when it knocks, Angelus had beaten her savagely in the cemetery, interrupting her patrol with bloody satisfaction. Only the interference of her friends had protected the dangerously ill Slayer and only their presence guards her now. Biting down on his panic, he presses the accelerator hard against the worn rust-thin floor and the little old car shudders and lurches beneath him, eating up the dark asphalt a little faster – but still not fast enough.


	31. I Only Have Eyes For You

Sometimes, he is tired. The exhaustion makes his limbs heavy, his eyes dim; his bones ache and seem sharp-edged and brittle as glass. Sometimes, he feels only human – or somewhat less than human, a man of paper and wax, melting in the fires of life’s trials. The voices of the people he loves, however well-meaning, are as distant as stars on these days; falling on his unhearing ears like rain – a susurration that he notes but can make no sense of, melodies that elude his focus. On these days he feels willing to believe anything, if only it will lift his burden, take the cup from his grasp – willling to submit to the bliss of ignorance, if only he could finally rest. He wants to believe the haint is Jenny; if only in the hope that her shade will offer him grace, forgiveness for his failures. The Slayer cannot fault him for his weakness, has felt it herself. She does not contradict him, refuses to shatter the illusion, pursuing truth on her own terms instead and hoping to keep him from danger in the process.

 


	32. Go Fish

A cranky Slayer is a dangerous Slayer, and Buffy’s temper does tend to get the best of her. The star of the swim team, in a move as tired as it was anticipated, had pressed his unwanted advances and received a bloodied and crooked nose in return. Unpleasant to cross at the best of times, the petite blonde blows into the library in a towering rage, pretty pearled cross flashing at her throat as she recounts in animated detail the unjust desserts served up by the detestable school principal. _Dress more appropriately,_ she’d been scolded; her modest tank top and tailored trousers somehow deemed too risque for the educational racket. Crossing her arms, she glares at her Watcher, his head bowed and fingertips pressed to the bridge of his nose in a gesture she associates with eyestrain or irritation, or both. Frowning a little, she takes a breath and attends to more important matters – all the while wondering, in spite of herself, what Giles thinks of her outfit, and all the attention it’s been getting.


	33. Becoming (I)

The sheet of paper is feather-light in his hands, black uniform letters inked on the blameless white surface. It weighs nothing, is flimsy and translucent in the incandescent lights of the library – it is the heaviest thing he has ever held. His lost love – lost lover – has made good on her promise, made things right from beyond the grave. The Slayer’s eyes are round and still as she looks at him, her face carefully expressionless, but he can almost hear her heart pounding. She wants so badly for this to work, for the world to right itself and her life to resume its natural course – he wants it too, on some level. But on a deeper, more instinctive level, apprehension suffocates him. He is older than she, and has learned that some things, once broken, can never be put back together again.


	34. Becoming (II)

_l’ll never leave you,_ Jenny’s shade whispers; so real he could reach out and touch her, impossibly distant. The assurance stays with him, after he breaks, after they grow bored with him and leave him to bleed, after he is freed and spirited away. Loving words, echoing around in his skull like the blunt force trauma he has been enduring – and it sounds somehow more like a threat than a promise; an ominous surety that he will never be rid of her, that the guilt of her death will be chained to him forever. He doesn’t know, could never truly know, but the Slayer now bears chains of her own – come sunrise, they will drag her away from him.


	35. Anne

His heart stays permanently lodged in his throat during her absence, a tumor he has learned to live with. He follows every whisper, a faithful hound; swallowing his sinking heart as each one fails to produce her only to feel it choke him again with the next phone call, the next potential sighting. Joyce’s condemnation hardly stings – desperately flawed and profoundly disappointed as she is, it remains impossible for her to despise him more than he hates himself. The truth is crueler than falsehoods ever could be – Buffy trusted him, relied on him, and now she is gone. He is her Watcher, but he wasn’t looking when she slipped away.


	36. Dead Man's Party

Three months and nary a whisper; only regret for company. He falls asleep at his desk, deja vu; waking to a rapping knock, pins and needles and the ghost of her perfume. He opens the door... And there she is. In the silence, hanging like dewdrops on a spider's web between them, the rest of the world fades into white noise. She is unchanged on the surface, only her manner is different - hesitant, soft green searching and sad; as if she is uncertain of her welcome. His eyes, still not certain he is awake, take in the sight of her - committing to memory every detail, lest she vanish once more the moment he looks away. 

"Welcome home, Buffy." And she smiles, relaxing into the company of her friends, sunshine in her voice as they all make themselves comfortable in his den. He retreats to the kitchen, throat tight around emotions he swallows down like medicine, joy and relief and the overwhelming desire to pull her into his arms and make sure she is real. He makes tea instead, familiar routine the one true solace of stoic Englishmen everywhere.


	37. Faith, Hope and Trick

It pains him to do, but is a necessary evil - like so many of his endeavors, undertaken with a grim determination and the hope that the ends will justify the means. She is shifty and evasive, failing to meet his eyes in a way that feels like a blade between his ribs. Like any wound, polluted and poisoning, this hurt must be excised - removed with delicacy and care. The truth is already in his grasp, written all over her face, trailed behind her like the dust and ashes of a ravening wildfire. 

"There is no spell."

Yet, like magic, she is herself again.


	38. Beauty and the Beasts

She is curled up in the library chair, legs folded beneath her, her head drooping bonelessly onto her shoulder. Sunlight, slanting watery and pale through the windows, traces loving fingertips through the gold of her hair, over the gentle angles of her slim bare arms. She is surrounded by his books, yellowed pages and well-worn spines spelling out another crisis - but he picks one up, studying the cover, and she stirs, cat-eyed and somnolent.

"Hey." Her languid, drowsy greeting charms him unutterably; his mind, too quick for him, unhelpfully supplying the image - interposed like the negatives of a film strip - of that tender, sleepy voice in an altogether different setting... A daydream that will linger in his blood for weeks. 

She is surrounded by texts on demonology and hell dimensions, and they have things to discuss. But for a moment, the suspended span of a few seconds before she wakes, she is only his.


	39. Homecoming

Though his answering machine has often been the bearer of bad tidings, Buffy's voice - afraid, alone - shakes him to his core and for one irrational moment he allows himself to picture her death. The fear of it surges up in him, a chunk of jagged ice in the flimsy cage of his ribs, paralyzing. That she might die, hunted and defenseless, _without him_ ; is unspeakable, unfathomable. As if in answer to his own anxieties, he recalls the crystalline tinkle of breaking glass as the bottle had shattered in her hand that afternoon. He is forced to recognize a truth he prefers to repress - that he needs her far more than she needs him.


	40. Band Candy

Ethan Rayne can always be counted upon to shake things up. When she looks back on the evening, flipping through her memories like pages in a manic scrapbook, it is all in a series of disconnected moments, more sensation than recall. The way they chased Ethan down together, a pair of predators high on the thrill of the hunt. Giles himself, cool and aloof, dismissing her with a James Dean sneer as he slipped a cigarette between his lips. The shockwave of fury and outrage that shot up her spine at the sight of her mother, entwined like poison ivy around _her_ Watcher. Those pale eyes, insolent and lingering, as if she were just another conquest waiting to happen. _Ripper._ The storm of confusion in her belly; both entirely new and all too familiar. 


	41. Revelations

His fury is incandescent, all-consuming. He can hardly breathe around it, it feels as if he's swallowed a sword - a white-hot blade of jealousy and betrayal, lancing through his insides and burning away all his reserve. _Angel._ Ill-omened, indeed - one way or another, it all always comes back to Angel. For a single moment, one heartbeat full of unborn regrets, he wants to punish her - to hurt her, as he was hurt. As he is still hurting.

"Be quiet. I won't remind you that the fate of the world often lies with the Slayer. What would be the point? Nor shall I remind you that you've jeopardized the lives of all that you hold dear by harboring a known murderer. But sadly, I must remind you that Angel tortured me... for hours... for pleasure. You should have told me he was alive. You didn't. You have no respect for me, or the job I perform."

She retreats, eyes brimming with hot tears as if he'd slapped her. For once, his gaze does not follow her out - his thoughts are turned inward, trained on the battle between remorse and resentment. 


	42. Lovers Walk

Her intelligence is an organic thing, a natural wit that keeps her alive but doesn't show up on paper. She has struggled academically for as long as he's known her, and so it comes as a surprise when she passes the standardized tests with flying colors. It's an exceptional score, and he's inordinately proud of her - but he tempers his praise, studying the shy slope of her shoulders and the way she looks away from him, unaccustomed to being appreciated for merits of the mind. If he could, he would see her far away from the Hellmouth with its many and varied evils... He would see her out in the world, free and happy as she never seems to be. It's hard to speak the words, to urge her to leave. He does it anyway. 


	43. The Wish

He dreams a dream without her in it; and yet, there she is. The names and faces are the same, only the world is different - the pieces on a chessboard, shaken apart in some cataclysm and replaced on opposite sides.

"I have to believe in a better world." He tells her, sternly hiding his desperation.

"Go ahead, I have to live in this one."

She is the worse for wear, it seems; but there's something in her brokenness that's abominably appealing. The soft frank curves of her beneath her utilitarian tank top, the scar that bisects her sulking smart mouth. An unspeakable lust, an ugly twisted thing, born of despair and hopelessness, rises up and swallows him whole; rational thought grinding to a halt as she glares at him, savage and sharp as the business end of a stake. He can picture this girl beneath him, at the end of it all; pressing her down into the dirt and the death and making her his as cities burn and the blackened sky breaks apart. He blinks, and the moment is gone, and they are just two people struggling to survive in a world that is dying around them. 


	44. Amends

Christmas Eve in the library, naturally a quiet affair. Pacing along the mezzanine, his arms full of rare tomes from deep within the stacks, he pauses to look down at her. She has fallen asleep, curled up beside a small collection of books, one slim hand pressed beneath her cheek. The library carpet, deep plush crimson muting the sound and vibration of his footfalls, contrasts strikingly with her golden hair and the pale lace of her top, flattering the peaks and valleys of her form. She frowns a little in slumber, a tiny furrow between her brows, and turns, lips parting softly as her shoulders press back into the floor. _Beautiful._ He swallows and glances away, moving on down the stairs and returning to the library's main floor, and asylum from his own secret thoughts.


	45. Gingerbread

What hubris, to imagine an American high school could ever be a safe place for his books. The collection of a lifetime, the finest library on the continental west coast, to be sure - seized by uncaring hands and piled into boxes, into wheelbarrows, into shopping carts. All that knowledge, decades of priceless research and careful curation, gone in an instant. All of it meaningless, crumbling into dust; their value reduced exponentially when held up in comparison to what else had been taken - his Slayer, infinitely more precious, gold weighing against paper. His Slayer - bound, scalded and sooty, and still fighting.


	46. Helpless

His world is collapsing around him, each soft syllable from her lips like a blade, the death of a thousand cuts in the tearful hostility of her eyes. He deserves it, he knows - consigns himself willingly to the flames of her ire and lets her go from him, her sense of betrayal absolute. It is the first and last time he will ever allow himself to make such a grave error, his own wrath dangerous as he brushes off the commands of the Council and follows her into battle. 

_You have a father's love for the child._ He cannot speak, smothered by despair and fury and the wretched truth concealed beneath this stranger's accusation. If only he could lay claim to such innocence.

The evening's clock winds down, and it is over, all over at last - the Council's watchdog summarily dismissed, the vampires slain, his Slayer wounded and broken. He kneels before her, silent in his prostration, bathing her wounds with a tenderness that speaks of a great remorse, a greater love - the biblical washing of feet, recast here in bloodier hues, still a desperate search for absolution. She allows it, her eyes softening beneath his careful ministrations, the first new life breathed back into her trust for him like the green upward press of crocus buds after a dark and brutal winter. Undeserved, clemency washes over him, a true baptism.


	47. The Zeppo

She smiles at him, her arm in a sling, his face purpled and marred with crimson scratches, lines of ruby on his skin that could have easily spelled out his death. They are broken, but broken together - as always, two sides of the same coin, but now mirroring one another in bruises and scars.

"It was the bravest thing I've ever seen," she is saying fondly, already reliving the recent conflict through the rosy lens of victory, proud and without fear or doubt. He blushes a little, demurring. He doesn't have the nerve to tell her the root of his ignoble motivation - that it was for her, has always been for her, will always be for her. That he would have let the world burn if it meant saving her; that in comparison, his death was nothing, a paltry offering to hold off her own passing for another day. 


	48. Bad Girls

"Whenever Giles sends me on a mission, he always says 'please.' And afterwards, I get a cookie." 

She cuts her eyes to his, tiny sideways smirk sly and playful. He manages to contain his chuckle, but just barely. The Council has sent a new and approved Watcher, and Buffy is having none of it - her loyalty to him, the way she draws nearer to him as this strange and strangely officious man attempts to make her acquaintance, delights him to no end. The new Watcher; a young, ineffectual pillock wrapped in insecurities and a sharp suit, is less than pleased. Giles finds he cannot bring himself to care. 


	49. Consequences

She is nearly sobbing, tears of outrage and terror rolling down the soft curve of her cheeks, hands knifing through the air insistent and animated as she protests her innocence. She came to him in good faith, trusting in him, and he responds with stern disappointment, barking a sharp command and withdrawing into his office. She tries once more to explain, to tell him that the man in the alley did not die by her hand, that it had been-

"Faith, I know," he cuts her off, and her tears halt immediately, relief etched on her delicate features, streaked with the ghost of her mascara. It paints her softly gleaming, like a stained-glass saint through the watery wash of summer rain. Her tears are as lovely and rarefied as her trust, and he chastises himself for taking either for granted.


	50. Doppelgangland

It has been said that the quality of mercy is not Buffy, that she lacks compassion when the greater issues of survival and duty are at stake - pun, here omitted. He observes the fluidity of her transition from violence to peacekeeping, the moment she casts down her weapon and instead raises the vampire Willow to her feet in a grip unrelenting but calm - no mindless soldier here, but a young woman with a compassionate soul, and wisdom beyond her years. Her friend cries out for her to wait, to show mercy - and though he knows her, sees her heart, he is still astonished and admiring when she does. 


	51. Enemies

The anxiety of uncertainty shows on her face; pale and distracted, she hardly follows along whilst the mission is in the planning stage. Staring off into the middle distance, she looks depressed and conflicted - in short, she looks like a teenager, and it's going to get her killed. A treacherous anxiety of his own settles into the pit of his stomach, an unwelcome reminder that he is no longer her Watcher, that he can't protect her. That he never truly could. 

"Be careful," he warns as she rises to depart; and she flashes him a wan smile that promises nothing. 


	52. Earshot

The privacy of his own mind is something it never occurred to him to be grateful for, but the moment it is lost he feels its absence acutely. His secret, unspoken thoughts are his own; and the place he hides all his fears, his shortcomings, his untoward and unmentionable impulses. But now she can hear them, is privy to all he strives to keep well-hidden. He bends to his work, pressing all his intellectual weight to the grindstone, keeping his mind too busy to offer up any thoughts too damning to be revealed. He falters, once; sees his sweet lie betrayed on her face - _If it doesn't go away, she'll go insane._

But she lives, is made whole again, madness driven from the door with luck and a bit of practical magic. It seems too simple, in the end, and he finds himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. When her mocking wit sees him walk face-first into a broad and rough-barked tree, he is almost relieved.


	53. Choices

"She's a blossoming young girl... and you want to keep her from the life she should have till it's passed her by? And, by God, I think that's a little selfish."

The Mayor's words are intended for Angel, the vampire's pale face in the shadows simultaneously stricken and obstinate. Giles looks away, swallowing hard, hating how the heated diatribe scalds him as well; hating the way darkness always speaks truth more earnestly and more cruelly than light. His Slayer, robbed of her youth, all the earnest newness rubbed away like gold plate over worn brass. His fault. Worse, this ugly inner knowing - that if he could bear it, could stand his own depravity, he would be selfish, too... Would make the vampire look like a saint. 


	54. The Prom

He has never seen her look so beautiful, so mature, so sad. He cannot help but draw near to her light, a delicate pastel radiance, a youthful saint all in gold and frosted pink. _Class Protector._ His pride must show in his smile, for she unfolds before it like a flower, beaming back and twirling the glittering and beribboned umbrella proudly. His fingertips itch to touch her, to trace the curve of her cheek; to draw her into a dance, a balm for mutual loneliness. Angel arrives, and he has never been so glad to see the vampire - late, unexpected, and decent enough to save him from himself. 


	55. Graduation Day (I)

The new Watcher is the picture of frustration and dismay, throwing his hands up in exasperation as he implores Giles to talk some sense into his Slayer. 

Instead, he crosses the room to sit by her side, expression bland and straddling the edge of confrontational. "I've nothing to say right now." A stubborn and self-evident truth - there is nothing for him to say, his solidarity is as it has ever been: silent, unshakable. It is in the defiant set of his shoulders as he turns his back on everyone but her, in his gritted-teeth rage as he drives a rapier, quick as a snake, into the heart of an invulnerable enemy, warning him away from her. His loyalties do not need to be spoken. Beside him, Buffy stands a little taller; bolstered by the strength of his resolve. 


	56. Graduation Day (II)

She is brilliant, as usual - all his doubts and fears swept away in the storm of a sweeping victory. He searches for her, the cacophony of fire and blood dying around them, and at last sees her bruised and sooty face dyed red in the swirling lights of rescue vehicles. Her diploma in his hand, a little singed like the rest of him, is the smallest offering he could put forth in return for all she's accomplished. He holds it out anyway, pride and relief in equal measures battling in his expression as she accepts the scroll. Tomorrow, no doubt, a new evil will rise; and they will be called once more into the breach. For now, he is content just to look at her, to reassure himself that she is still here, still vital and alive with possibility.


	57. The Freshman

The woman is older than she is - of course, so is Giles, and it seems suddenly obvious and natural. She feels for the first time like an outsider in his presence; immature, foolish and unacquainted with the realities of life. A cold spike of unbelonging, of _jealousy_ , slides between her ribs; and it makes her tongue sharp, mouth running away with her. Before she realizes it she's insulted him, and the stare he levels at her is exasperated and tired - the face of someone dealing with a tiresome child.

"Well, before I succumb to the ravages of age, why don't you tell me what brings you here?"

She is instantly, visibly ashamed, flushing red and glancing away. She mutters something inane, makes her escape - and though he attempts to backpedal, to repair the damage they both have done, there is something jagged and hard lingering in the room when she's gone. 


	58. Living Conditions

She is furious; lovely and lethal in her rage. The insidious chill of guilt and betrayal slide up his spine like icy fingers as they render his Slayer helpless and bind her tight, leaving her perched atop his weapons chest like a trophy. Risking a last glance at her glowering countenance, he makes himself scarce - attending to theoretically more important matters, all the while beleaguered by the haunting possibility that she may be right, that he has let her down, done further damage to their already straining bond... and for nothing. When he returns, later, to find the boys sprawled and bruised on the floor, the ropes that had contained her loose and tangled and frayed at the edges, he is not in the least surprised - only dismayed, and filled with a profound regret. 


	59. The Harsh Light of Day

He is in her room, a turn of events that knocks her off balance and makes her acutely aware of how the thin fabric of her top clings to her form, the slender cords of black that tie across her supple back baring far too much skin in the bright light of morning. At his cool stare, clear rejection of her lie stamped on his patrician features, she squares her shoulders and glares back.

"I'm an adult now and it's none of your business what I do." She informs him, her words unconvincing even to herself.

He meets her gaze with unrelenting blandness, expression impassive. "I'm sincerely relieved to hear it." But the arid dryness in his tone, the way his eyes rake over her body, fidgeting restlessly in last night's outfit, scalds like hot water on her skin.


	60. Fear, Itself

He paces before the sealed manse, a book open in his large hands, muttering to himself with the patented scowl of concentration furrowing his brows. At last he looks up, snapping the book shut and returning to the bag of tricks he has left waiting on the concrete. "We're going to have to create a door." He informs no one in particular, though the ex-demoness in her paradoxical bunny costume is puttering about and hanging on his every word.

"Create a door? You can do that?" She seems incredulous, hopeful - someone she cares for is trapped within, as well.

From within the black canvas depths of the bag, he withdraws a chainsaw, hands gripping it surely as he hoists it and heads with grim determination for what is by all appearances a solid wall. "I can." No pedantic, child's-play fear spell is going to keep him from his Slayer. 


	61. Beer Bad

Her hair is tousled and hangs in her face, green eyes unrecognizing and unrecognizable as she glances over her shoulder at the intruders in her room, supremely unconcerned save for a certain animal wariness. She is savage and feral, primitive in her urges and behaviors, but the ease with which she tosses him aside is familiar, at least. He nurses the soreness in his spine and the slow-burning memory of her, wild and instinct-driven, in silence; wondering if she will recall her behavior later, wondering if he wants her to - wondering, too, if she has noticed, in her altered state, the flash of recognition and primal hunger in his own eyes, an answer to her call.


	62. Wild at Heart

The Bronze, again; a familiar scene, low and longing notes sailing out over the crowd - the scene is the same, only the actors have changed. 

"I think she's quite extraordinary," her Watcher comments, taking part in the discussion on the musician's merits. Buffy's eyes narrow in jealousy. The singer is truthfully nothing special, nothing to either recommend or condemn her; save the way the pale wolfish eyes of her best friend's lover linger on the sensual songstress every time they visit the nightclub. Confident in the strength of Willow's relationship, the Slayer had paid the sultry blonde onstage little attention. But Giles' opinion cuts a little deeper, touches a portion of herself she didn't realize was exposed and raw. 


	63. The Initiative

All her life she'd looked forward to this - to this freedom, to this new experience, to college. But the shift has brought her nothing but unhappiness and isolation. She is missing him, feels the arms length at which he holds her as an insurmountable distance. No longer her Watcher, no longer her anything - and yet she feels adrift without him.

He feels useless without her, buries himself in empty hobbies and shallow relationships to fill the void she has left - the void he himself has helped to create. Even when together, dark thoughts and insecurities mar the easy rapport and unbalance the careful trust they have fought for years to establish. 

She throws daggers with her eyes, words sharp and artificially bright, designed to garner attention. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find something slutty to wear." As if she's testing him, seeing how far she can push before he pushes back.


	64. Pangs

Buffy flutters out through the front door, his home already bearing the trappings of an American Thanksgiving, complete with cranberries and his Slayer's hectic exuberance. He studies the secret he has been silently harboring, resentment like an old friend he has learned to live with. Even now, Angel cannot seem to meet his eyes. 

"I'm glad that you're watching out for her, but I feel I should remind you that she's not helpless and it's not your job to keep her safe." The inference is brisk, sharp with warning - and as it turns out, double-edged. 

"It's not yours anymore, either. Are you going to walk away?"

And he won't, not ever. Cannot fathom a reality in which she does not dominate his thoughts, his anxieties. He expects the vampire knows that. 


	65. Something Blue

The Slayer traces the line of her throat with a slim fingertip, the delicate fluttering beneath golden skin a temptation to man and beast. "All bare and tender and exposed..." 

He rolls his eyes and vacates the room, leaving the blond vampire chained in the bathtub to his justly deserved torment. Later, he will be almost grateful for his blindness - he cannot see her seaside limbs twined around defanged demon, can only hear her ardent tongue meet Spike's in a soul kiss. There is a cruel sweetness to the spell that pulls at his heart even as other aspects repulse him - when she asks him, all hopeful innocence, to give her away, he is so touched he cannot find the words to tell her he never would.


	66. Hush

The world is muffled, the knocking at his door at once familiar and startling, newly loud in the blank void of silence. He has been struggling all morning to make himself understood, to make sense of the new crisis without the use of his own voice - and then she is there, the touch of her hand on his arm reassuring, the look in her eyes the very picture of relief. She is endlessly clever, and she and Willow have arrived with signboards slung around their necks on narrow cords. But he hardly glances at the white squares, black words hastily scrawled with darting hands. For the first time since waking into the silent world, he doesn't even miss his voice - with her, he finds he does not need it.


	67. Doomed

He is wrong, again. For so long, now, he has fought by her side; and still he has not learned to pay homage to her intuition, to trust her word. Her rock-solid instincts are a sharp departure from the image he holds of her in his mind - flighty and young, a girl still, though not in the ways that matter. He should be the last person to underestimate her and his failure crowns him like a dunce cap.

“I’m so very sorry. My contrition completely dwarfs the impending apocalypse." His tone is dry, his anxiety as ever robed thickly in sarcasm. But he is sorry; recalling with bitter clarity brushing her off and pushing her away. The distance between them has become a point of obsession for him, something he alternately resents and encourages... But he is sorry, sorry, because now he may lose her once more.


	68. A New Man

She is dating again, a new specimen on her arm - tall and fit and golden as she is, smiling with even white teeth and an earnest sincerity that makes Giles feel old just looking at him. The boy is charming, a little awkward, and clearly delighted if a bit baffled to make his acquaintance. 

"Giles was the librarian at my high school," Buffy informs her beau, and he is surprised by the hot flush of shame like a slap in the face. Not _friend,_ not _family_ , but _the librarian_ , a tertiary acquaintance, confusingly close. Riley, still bewildered, dashes off to fetch a piece of cake - Giles eyes his retreating back, broad and strong, and _hates_ him.

But then disaster strikes, as it always does; and Buffy saves the day, as she is wont to do. And when he asks her how she knew him, garbed in his own hideousness inside and out, she laughs, and smiles her sunny smile as if it should be obvious.

"Your eyes."


	69. The I in Team

The Initiative turns out to be dangerous, to the surprise of no one in particular - save his ever-idealistic Slayer. He is hardly troubled by it, has heard before of government agencies both foreign and domestic that dabble in the paranormal, unwise and uneducated children with their overfunded toys playing at ghouls and goblins. What is troubling is the sense of satisfaction, washing over him as if it were relief - relief at the unmasking, at knowing one's enemy... At having his Slayer, her fingers burned in reward for reaching out, returned to his side. It is an unworthy thought, a selfish sort of amelioration, and yet once seen, he cannot turn away from it.


	70. Goodbye, Iowa

They tried to kill her, his girl, his _Buffy_. For a long moment all he can see is red, pulse pounding in ears at the hubris, the audacity of this Margaret Walsh and her goose-stepping houseboys. His Slayer makes a claim for Riley's innocence, and distantly, the rational part of him agrees that there is a fair chance the lad had been ignorant of the attempt on his girlfriend's life... _Ignorance_ , that is the best that can be said of him, this _boy_ playing at war - and like the tide, the rage rises up in him again.


	71. This Year's Girl

"Are you alright?" 

He sinks down next to her, staid and familiar in his soft wool sweater, the scent of old books, tea and a whisper of scotch clinging to his skin; all sensitive eyes and five-o-clock shadow. She wants to say no, wants to bury herself in that comforting warmth, to allow herself to be comforted, to _need._ She has denied herself everything in the pursuit of the ideal, and they both know it. So he goes through the motions, as he knows he must. Offers her rest, offers her help, offers her sympathy... Tries to keep the bleak concern from his face when she, impossibly, inevitably turns him down. She is duty-bound, her gift a millstone around her neck - and he knows that even if he were to draw her away, she would fight tooth and nail to return to it. Such is the nature of her burden. They both have their roles to play. 


	72. Who Are You

She wears Faith's body like a costume; standing before him in the flesh - yet not. Every inch of her as exasperatingly charming as ever; wide dark eyes disorienting and yet not unfamiliar as they lock pleadingly with his own. That she is speaking truths becomes apparent almost at once, her words of explanation tumbling out in a rush, and he can hardly credit his own idiocy in failing to recognize her, to know her, at once. She is garbed as Faith, in the dark Slayer's sultry skin, winsome pout of her lips painted harlot red - but she is his, still his,  could never for a moment be anything - anyone - else. 


	73. Superstar

“I don’t know,” three of the ugliest words in the English language, his own incompetence and laughable naivety staring him in the face. All week he has been lost in the grip of an amateurish enchantment, he realizes beneath the hot wash of shame, the bitter pill of anxiety and dismay. Shaking off the fog of illusion, his thoughts immediately turn to his Slayer - on her own again, as brave and stubborn as ever, and seemingly the only one of them wise enough to hold fast to her truth against all comers.


	74. Where the Wild Things Are

He can smell it on her, and wonders if she knows. How casually she perches in the boy’s lap, the golden-haired soldier preening at the prize held in place with strong, sinewy hands. When he sees her now it is through the haze of another man’s lust, her lips bitten and plump, her gaze faraway and dreamy - a girl who has just been kissed, has just been loved. He attends to the task at hand, and tries not to hate her, to not notice the salty-sweet warmth of her skin, the possessive pride of her lover. Tries, and fails, to think of anything but her as his fingertips strum the guitar - glancing out over the crowd and noting familiar eyes staring back... But of course, not hers. He tells himself he is grateful for it. He lies.


	75. New Moon Rising

It is not about her, and she knows it. Oz’s return and its resultant fallout - the chaos of the Initiative’s meddling, the clash of Willow’s burgeoning self-discovery against her ex-lover’s naive assumptions... All of this has little to do with her, apart from her role as defender and facilitator. Somehow, it soothes her - the ability to turn away, for a moment, from the weight of her own feelings, the confusion of her own personal life. She settles into her Watcher’s home, planning, recovering - more comfortable there than in her own bed. She wonders how, in the midst of all life’s complications, being near him can still make her feel at ease.


	76. The Yoko Factor

_If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?_

The vampire slithers into his home like the serpent into Eden, all smirking blond insolence and toxic whispers. He knows the Slayer has little use for an old man, of course he knows - does not need this interloper to tell him so. “I’m her Watcher,” he protests, but the words feel thin and insubstantial on his tongue. 

Spike remains unconvinced, the edge of his mouth and one eyebrow rising in skeptical unison. “I’ve seen the way she treats you.”

The hollow place inside himself, where he buries in silence all the feelings he cannot have, burns like shame. He starts drinking and doesn’t stop; and when she says she cannot count on him, he is unable to argue.


	77. Primeval

"Sophus... Mind."

It is exhilarating, being with her - _within her_ \- as she fights. To feel the strength of his own will, the weight of all his talents, wrapped up and entwined with her own. He wonders briefly if she can feel it, as well, this joining. He is swallowed up by her heady excitement, eagerness for the kill, untempered ferocity. It is mirrored, balanced, by his own pride, his admiration, his lingering anxieties transmogrified into laser-sharp focus and a honed battle instinct. The ancient magics that bind them propel her forward, a newly forged blade, victory a hot red tide, a flash of blinding white.


	78. Restless

"Don't you think it's a little old-fashioned?"

"This is the way women and men have behaved since the beginning... Before time."

Sylphlike in a summer dress of patterned silk, she stares up at him, playful but patient. Her laughter is like a bell, silver-edged and fey, the gold of her hair and burnished ivory of her skin blending into gauzy, dappled surreality. A dream, he realizes - for in the waking world, he would have been helpless to resist her. The spirit of the First Slayer has no concern for his sensibilities, for his propriety, for the lies he tells himself. When he awakens, afterwards; he finds he cannot unsee it - his Buffy, there before him, the swinging of his pocketwatch casting glimmering light and shadow across her face.


	79. Buffy vs Dracula

His stomach is in knots, his lungs laboring quietly away behind his ribs, and he feels as if he is dying. She paces back and forth, her thoughts chasing themselves in circles; that rapid-fire, disorganized speech with all her heart and soul behind it. Her impulsiveness, the way she operates purely on instinct, had irked him once, been a source of frustration - but he has grown to love it. Has grown to love her. And yet... the words of departure balance on his tongue, waiting to fall and shatter the illusion of his own needfulness. 

"I can't do it without you." Her words echo another time, another place; the ghost of her clinging to him on cold alley pavement as fire rages behind, above. He swallows, picks up his teacup, and smiles weakly - hoping she will never know how close he came to turning his back, to walking away. 


	80. Real Me

The Hanged Man, suspended in silence; inverted and _invictus_ despite circumstance. Her form stretches toward the ceiling, each taut muscle and corded tendon an extension of her will. Her balance is perfect; her poise, flawless - the gentle ebb and flow of her careful breaths, the way long soft lashes brush her cheek in defiance of gravity, an act of god. Even as he guides her meditation, tone deep and sonorous, he cannot take his eyes off her - cannot find the path of pure intention he seeks.

Her balance is in him; in the rhythm of his breathing, the soft padding of his footfalls in worn leather as he circles her, the low accented syllables guiding her to a deeper silence, a deeper truth.


	81. The Replacement

The attack comes as if from nowhere, the sanctity of his brand-new shop christened once more with violence, as it was always destined to be. The savage nature of the demonic presence is nothing he is unaccustomed to - in fact, a certain dark part of him relishes it, blood rushing to muscles unused but guided by memory to attack. But the spark dies as quickly as it flared, renders him helpless and nearly insensate amid the wreckage of his merchant's ambitions - mortal and weak and _old,_ again. 

"You are not the slayer. You do not concern me." The demon speaks, without inflection - merely a statement of _fact_. The reality of it turns him cold with dread and futility as the beast turns its back and departs. Of what use, truly, is he - to the cause, to her?


	82. Out of My Mind

The spark of delight, the slow catlike unfurling of her smile, the flush of real excitement in her seemingly delicate skin. It has all been worth it - the hours of backbreaking effort, laying the flooring, securing the training room to withstand a Slayer's strength and fury. Honing and polishing weapons; mounting them on the wall to bring them readily to both hand and eye. Listening to the incessant bickering of the children - or as he would have to learn to call them, the _others_ \- as they all worked in unison to realize his vision. 

"I love it," she murmurs, real pleasure evident - radiant. Her smile falls upon him, that special warmth in her eyes that, he fondly imagines, is only for him. The room, into which he has invested so much time and care, falls away. The room, of course, was never important. 


	83. No Place Like Home

The mild tempest of her younger sister's wrath retreats down the hallway and subsides, and Buffy breathes deep - words falling from her mind like water droplets into a still pool, ripples expanding outward with her consciousness. Even as she immerses herself within the spell, she finds herself wishing that Giles were there to help her - to understand the importance of timing, of precision, as Riley had not. To handle the burning of incense and drawing of a circle with the respect that even she, with her limited knowledge of the arcane arts, understands they demand. To Watch over her and keep her safe and undisturbed, as she relaxes into the ritual and for once, for a moment, lets her guard down. 


	84. Family

She does not need him, and they both know it. Her strength, the unyielding steel in her gaze, is more than enough to keep the hillbillies on holiday from imposing their will on the shy and gentle young witch. But something about his presence at her back, his solid and willing heat a bulwark against all comers, warms her - makes her feel safe, and at home. She takes a deep, steadying breath - the scent of some dark, woodsy cologne, old books, tea, incense; the hum and stir of old friends at her back, ready to follow her lead. An atmosphere of safety, even as the sharp acrid tang of adrenaline splits the room like a thunderclap. Her Watcher takes his place at her shoulder, and she is unmoving as the earth beneath their feet, as certain as the sun.


	85. Fool For Love

"Painful," the word had been on his lips, sharp as a slap; he stumbles over it as a man stumbles over a tiger pit. It tumbles free like a runaway rockpile, breaking his well-intended silence. She pauses, cut off mid-tirade, suddenly mute as her eyes meet his. He sees the shadow of her death, the threat of parting, reflecting in an infinite loop - green upon green, in her gaze, in his own. What an inadequate word, to describe such an agonizing fate - that one day, despite everything, she would go... And he would stay. The knowledge of it, her presence in his life like a blade buried in his vitals, twisting cruelly with each step; a blade that would surely bleed him out if removed. _Painful._  


	86. Shadow

One faraway afternoon at Sunnydale High, when she was young - a lifetime ago, longer - she had learned how phones work. The voice the ear hears is merely a digital copy; the beloved tones we recognize broken down into bits of data and reassembled into an auditory facsimile. A ghost in the machine.

"Where are you?" That familiar voice, deconstructed and reconstructed over the line, still and quiet, like a warm hand laid over her heart. Instantly recognizable as his, unmistakable; strained with concern as if he could cast himself along the wire, disembodied, and arrive all the more swiftly at her side. 


	87. Listening to Fear

The discordant, repetitive jangle of salsa music rattles in her ears, muffling the sound of her sobs. Her hands are damp, smelling artificially of oranges from the dish soap her mother prefers; but she presses them hard, fingers and palms to her mouth, trying desperately to hold in the animal sound of her pain. She finds herself wishing for a shoulder to cry on, for arms to hold her as she trembles and weeps and shows her weakness to the world. For the scent of bergamot and old books, and a fragrant-steaming cup pressed into her cold, wet hands. 


	88. Into the Woods

The vampire nest is abandoned, the willing victims absent. The room is silent with the weight of their clashing opinions. He has made a mistake, he recognizes immediately; has been dismissive of something she considers important... Intimately personal. She glares at him, then in one movement lifts the smoldering space heater and hurls it against the wall, torching the remains of the derelict building. In the brilliant light of the fire he sees it - vengeance, a private hurt painted over with the veneer of righteous indignation. It all makes sense, the vague shadow of understanding coalescing between the memory of her lover's dark turtlenecks and evasive manner, the shimmer of hurt and betrayal in her eyes. _Burn it down,_ he thinks, and inwardly praises her.


	89. Triangle

"I just said it feels like the end of the world, don't you listen?" 

He stiffens, taken aback by the monumental misstep he has apparently made. She leans towards him, the light of mischief dawning in her eyes. "I'm teasing." 

_Too right you are._

She is flushed from training, glowing with health and vitality; her skin smells of clean sweat and the barest whiff of her perfume, and he wants to take her beloved face in his large hands and kiss her, and kiss her, till she can't remember her ex-lover's name, can't remember the familiar pain of loneliness. 


	90. Checkpoint

"They picked the perfect thing. I can't lose you."

Her voice is soft, matter-of-fact; her eyes on him gentle and steady. For a moment it takes his breath away, this admission; he is adrift in the sea of her affection, and can only manage a lingering look, the soft murmur of thanks. He thinks he could not love her more, admire her more than he does in this moment - and then she triumphs over the Council, sends them packing back to England with tails between legs and shame in their hearts... And he finds her more dazzling still.


	91. Blood Ties

The gang gathers around a table, hands and hearts full of unlikely suggestions and empty leads. One dead end after another has the light in her eyes fading, frustration suffocating her like a tomb. He cannot bear to see it, to contribute to the dead-end discussion - busies himself making tea instead. When the kettle whistles, he pours and stirs, well-acquainted by now with how each cup should be prepared. Leaning across the table, he hands her the first steaming teacup - the least he can do under the circumstances, when research is getting them nowhere, and she has such a terrible burden to bear. This smallest kindness; met with gratitude in her eyes - the spark that rekindles the light. 


	92. Crush

"I'm back by popular demand." She smiles, looking up at him - familiar, almost conspiratorial. These moments by the door do pile up; their comfortable domesticity, their drama, layer upon layer of memory. The scent of perfume, cosmetics, the floral citrus of her shampoo - as Californian as she is - engulfing him as she departs for an evening out... The scent of salt and buttered popcorn on her lips and fingers after a night in with her family, blonde tresses tousled, feet bare beneath flannel printed pajamas. Trust borne out by repetition so frequent it has become second nature, as natural as breathing. The bond between them, a melancholy but steadfast sort of connection - the knowledge that when one leaves, the other returns... While one rests, the other will watch.


	93. I Was Made to Love You

"Well, it is very strange. I can't imagine what he's thinking." He flushes, his tongue runs away with him, he cannot seem to stop it. "Not... not that you're not, ah, attractive..."

His Slayer scowls, hammering away at her drill; pausing only to, in staccato breaks, disdain the vampire's affections - this new undead fascination, a bleak and twisted echo of the old one. It seems there is nothing to say, and so he says nothing; allowing her to work her frustrations free of their moorings, instead. 

Later, with worn, butter-soft leather clenched in his grip; words come back to him, venom in a low growling baritone. Protectiveness, outrage... _jealousy._ "We are not your way to Buffy. There is no way to Buffy." Moss green, dark as a wild wood, locks with cobalt; he sees the fervor there - just another moth, drawn to her deadly golden flame. 


	94. The Body

_Helpless._ He is agonized by his own helplessness, paralyzed by loss and horror and Buffy silent like a weeping statue in his arms. There is nothing he can do, naturally - he has no power over life and death, over how much trauma his Slayer is destined to endure. His grip on her shoulders as she trembles and stares beyond him is firm but gentle, as if she is glass that will shatter apart, as if she is a girl, facing an ancient fear for the first time. Death she knows well, and sorrow, and abandonment... But this, this pain is entirely new. 


	95. Forever

Her father - the one she has not seen in years, the one who has been in Spain while she has been in hell, does not call. She is alone in this; slim fingers running with a quavering hesitation over the deep wood grain of the coffin, the gleaming box in which Joyce Summers will eternally rest. It is her Watcher that takes her phone calls, holds her up as she chooses flowers and prayer cards, doing his best to dull the sharp hurt of her loss. It is not enough, a paltry offering in comparison to all she needs, all he cannot give, all she will never have again.


	96. Intervention

They copy one another; inadvertently, unconsciously. Their movements overlap in quiet synchronicity; even their clothes appear a matched set - sturdy dark jackets, thick sweaters in earth tones. They do not have time for this, not really - for the blinding stark expanse of the desert, for the rattle of the carved gourd, for her eyes on his; hopeful, hopeless. But this is the path they walk, Slayer and Watcher, together as always at the end of the world.


	97. Tough Love

"She'll listen to you."

"Just like you always have."

It is difficult to be firm with her, to deny her anything when she looks up at him, all pleading jade and pouting rose. He aches to lift her burden, to gather her up in his arms - small, so small she has always been, despite her strength and power. To shield her from her responsibilities, from the dark heart of the world - for at least a little while. He settles for resting his hands on her shoulders - a light, sure presence, familiar and lingering... For good or ill; a strong, guiding hand. 


	98. Spiral

"I'm so proud of you. You've come so far. You're everything a Watcher ... everything _I_ could have hoped for."

His praise is gentle, genuine; it burns her like acid. She chokes on her tears, eyes wide as if she can force herself to wake - end the nightmare, deny the reality of the situation. Her mother, gone. Her sister, her friends, endangered - jeopardized by her actions, by her failure to act. The strength she relies on, the voice she needs most; speaking through bloodied lips, saying goodbye. 


	99. The Weight of the World

He is only human, after all; rising from his hospital bed after only a few hours rest, a dense bandage patching the hole in his chest. He staggers, shrugging into his jacket; ignores it. The boy peppers him with inquiries, sprinkled too sparingly with information. "It only hurts while I answer pointless questions," he snaps back, pain receding as consciousness returns - as priorities reassert themselves. His pain - his mortal, human pain - is hardly relevant. "Where's Buffy?"


	100. The Gift

"She's a hero, you see. She's not like us."

He steps out into the glare of the floodlights, an innocent man's tainted blood still staining his hands. It as if he has stepped into a nightmare - the oldest nightmare he has, one that haunts him in sleep and in waking. _Karma,_  his brain natters inanely, and then, more firmly, as if it is true, _Retribution._  Justice for his misdeeds, for his inadequacies - for his audacious pretense, a bitter aging warlock playing at guidance and guardianship. For an instant he turned his back, and in that instant she slipped away - broken on the dusty concrete, unguarded, unaware. So lovely still, a sleeping maiden... Except that she is manifestly not - not sleeping, not present. _Gone._  The reality of it hits him, rips through him; he will never see her again, never hear her voice or watch the grace of her movements, never be blessed by the aura of her light. He looks down at her form - empty, a shell - and weeps. 


	101. Bargaining

The bot moves through their lives like a friendly ghost, bright empty eyes and faintly pink cheeks and nothing, _nothing_  behind her smile. The girl he Watched over, the girl he trained and fought beside and _loved_... She is nowhere and everywhere, haunting him in metallic echoes, painted on the backs of his eyelids when he tries to sleep. His pain is not unique; this desolation, this long, harrowing night. He had always known that someday he was destined to lose her, that the world was destined to lose her. 

"She's gone. I did my job."

"Well then, why are you still here?" 

He looks at her - _it_ \- glass eyes wide and innocent, lost in the quagmire of human emotion they have been forcing it to navigate. He cannot answer, and they stare at one another in silence - man and machine, empty shells both. 


	102. After Life

"I miss Giles." The air in the shop is abrasive, sandpaper against her skin. The eyes of her friends - attentive, expectant - prick her like needles, like splinters of ice in a fever dream. She wants calm, and quiet; the relaxation of her rigid guard. Rising to her feet, quivering with impatience, she departs to patrol. If he is not present then the company of monsters seems preferable to this needy, hateful brightness - to this induction into the blinding misery of the reality she'd left behind. 


	103. Flooded

He cannot seem to stop touching her - the feel of her astounds him; firm and vital in his arms; her cheek warm and alive beneath his palm. "You're alive, you're here... You're..." There are no words to appropriately encompass the revelation of her being - the pulse beating fast but sure in her throat, the living heat of her skin; greater still than the sum of her parts. 

"A miracle?" She supplies helpfully, smile tentative and rueful - almost if she is embarrassed, by the awkwardness of being alive after all the fuss she created by being dead. 

_A miracle._  "Yes. But then, I always thought so."


	104. Life Serial

"I just wanna tell you... That, um... this makes me feel safe. Knowing you're always gonna be here."

His heart is full of her, but she is ephemeral, barely there with shadows under her eyes and liquor on her breath. Swaying a little in the doorway, clutching the slip of paper as if it is the answer to all of life's problems; soft eyes gazing out at him dimly, as if from a great distance - a gulf between them, all she has seen, all he has not said. He swallows them again, the words he will not speak, truths and worries he cannot give voice to; and she turns and is gone. 


End file.
